This woman, whose breasts
tumble from her heart, takes her measure
in another's eye - the greater
he is, the larger the reflection,
and the farther away
the more of herself she sees
And in the evening she makes love
to her own body - washing her hair,
massaging her fingers before
her manicure
that woman whose art
tumbles from her breast, makes her measure
in another's lies the greater she is,
the harder the perfection,
and the farther away
the more of himself he sees
and in the evening he makes love
to his own body wishing her there
massaging her fingers before
her manicure